


too divine (said i'm too divine)

by sugandt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: First Crush, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and too many commas, no beta we post at 2 am and run, too much description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 19:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20394886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: Claude’s pink tongue pokes out from between his lips, and his brows furrow together, and when he’s really in the thick of it, he twists his braid around and around his lithe, long fingers. How much Dimitri loves the sight, gets lost in the way Claude’s braid spirals in his grasp, like he’s hypnotizing Dimitri without intention.Or; Dimitri has a crush on Claude, without a clue of how to proceed.





	too divine (said i'm too divine)

**Author's Note:**

> *drops my switch in the bath* guess it's time to actually write this!
> 
> forewarning i've only played half of gd route and 15ish hours of bl route, but this is set close to the time skip, so claude and dimitri are both eighteen.
> 
> title from mac miller's "skin."
> 
> twt/tumblr @ spiritdrops

It’s not Dimitri’s fault he’s bored. 

There’s so much more he could be doing; training with the others, asking Professor Byleth for help on the latest paper they have assigned that’s troubling him, resting alone in his room with a hot cup of tea. But it would be a poor display of leadership to leave a seminar midway, not to mention incredibly disrespectful to Seteth! It’s just, well, Seteth has moved past the topic of lances and onto that of the bow, and as much as Dimitri appreciates his targeted lecture, there’s not much left for Dimitri to absorb. Part of him envies Sylvain, who showed up late, then promptly left the moment Seteth moved on from lance technique. As much as he would like to leave, there’s one good thing to come out of the bow portion of the seminar. Bored as he is, Dimitri’s gaze keeps wandering elsewhere, and he can just feel Dedue watching him taking long moments to think of something to say that won’t alert Seteth. Dimitri lives in those moments. 

Claude von Reigan. Sat up a row, to Dimitri’s left, just the perfect distance away. And alright, perhaps it’s a little bit weird to watch him take notes, of all things. But Claude’s pink tongue pokes out from between his lips, and his brows furrow together, and when he’s really in the thick of it, he twists his braid around and around his lithe, long fingers. How much Dimitri loves the sight, gets lost in the way Claude’s braid spirals in his grasp, like he’s hypnotizing Dimitri without intention. He can feel Dedue’s fingers tap his thigh twice, trying to get his attention, but Dimitri intentionally ignores him, letting his eyes move down from Claude’s hair to his eyes, emerald green and surrounded by long, thick lashes, it’s not fair, and he knows how many girls envy them. His lips, usually curved in a smirk, glisten from where his tongue was resting. Dimitri wonders what he tastes like. No, he doesn’t. No, he doesn’t! Seteth, bows, Dedue, arrows, class. Experimental bow technique. Claude. 

If Dimitri were to let his mind wander, he would think about Claude’s ensemble. Oh, it’s absolutely unfair, the way Claude wears his uniform. Unbuttoned down, down, down, Dimitri would wonder if his skin is warm, if so, how warm, burning hot, or just warm enough? Palms flat on Claude’s stomach, Dimitri’s calloused hands curling around Claude’s waist, up his lean back, then around to his front where he would trail one finger along his sternum to tilt Claude’s chin up, he would think about how easy it would be to turn his uniform inside out, dishevelled and torn seams and missing buttons. Dimitri would wonder just how sensitive Claude is-- a lot, or not at all? Does he make noise, does he smirk and talk back the way he does in class to Professor Byleth, or would he scowl, like Felix’s permanent expression? Would he push him away, or become pliant beneath the touch of another man? 

“Blaiddyd,” comes Seteth’s gentle, yet authoritative voice, and it pulls Dimitri out of his fantasy with such force that his neck aches with whiplash. He parts his lips to respond, but Seteth beats him to it. 

“Could you repeat what I just said for the rest of the class, please?” 

Dimitri is quiet. He does not have a clue as to what Seteth was saying, so deep in his frivolous daydreams, pointless daydreams because he’s a prince and he must bear an heir to the throne and thinking about another man, let alone Von Riegan... does not come with any benefits. Claude has shifted to watch him, arm thrown lazily over the back of his chair, half covered by the yellow cape on his shoulder. 

“My apologies, Professor,” says Dimitri, quietly, shamefully, “I was not paying attention.”

“Very well,” replies Seteth, and that’s all he needs to say. Meek, Dimitri wants to shrink into his chair, shrink into himself, but instead, he remains tall, still as can be. What point is there in showing his shame? 

When Seteth turns his back to the students for a moment, Claude grins at Dimitri over his shoulder, all teeth. 

In the late evening, Dimitri finds himself inking in the last paragraph of the homework Professor Byleth had assigned-- they had given out the sheets nearly a week ago, but Dimitri has always preferred physical work, such as mock battles and archery training, to writing paragraphs upon paragraphs about the history of Faergus militarization. As much as he prides himself in being studious and disciplined, it’s getting quite dull, and he would really like to go to sleep soon. But it’s due tomorrow, and he’s nearly done, and Professor Byleth would not be pleased if the house leader of the Blue Lions showed up with a half-complete paper. Neither would it make Dimitri look good— he’s supposed to be a model prince, after all. Model prince, he thinks to himself and turns the page of the book. he had loaned it from the library some time ago, overdue by now for sure, but it’s not like he was just holding on to it without reason. 

And perhaps lying in bed while writing is not the best way to do his work, it’s making him more sleepy by the minute and he’s about ready to shuck off his clothes and call it a night. Just a few more sentences, and then he should be satisfied with his essay, even if it’s concise, where it lacks in persuasion it hopefully makes up in evidence. Oh, but he really, really doesn’t want to. Could he finish it in the morning, skipping breakfast to write the conclusion paragraph?

How unbefitting of a prince. 

Dimitri pushes the book and his paper to the foot of his bed, rolling over to lie on his stomach, arms crossed as a makeshift pillow. His temple rests on his forearms, and his eyes drift closed. Even house leaders have to know their limits, Claude had once told him during their weekly evening meetings, strolling around the round table leisurely. His fingers brushed the nape of Dimitri’s neck. Dimitri was unable to tell if it was platonic or not, if Claude had let his fingers linger just a moment too long. Perhaps Dimitri just longs for the touch of another. 

How awful would it be if Dimitri were not to finish his paper before class tomorrow morning? Would Byleth get upset with him, make a mockery of him to the rest of the students? Or would they ask him politely to meet him after class to receive a suitable punishment? What would Claude think— why does he care what Claude thinks in the first place? He looks at the candles on his desk, how much wax has melted since lighting them. Figuring he should have enough time, so long as he wakes up early to finish the last part of his paper, Dimitri pulls his robe off, wanting to discard it on the floor, but he knows better than to leave a mess. So he rises, blows out all but one of the candles, and hangs the robe up on the back of his door. 

He lies back down, stomach against soft sheets. He thinks about Claude, how Claude would chastise him for not getting his paper done, at the next house leader meeting, bring it up in front of Edelgard. How mortifying that would be. Dimitri’s hips involuntarily grind down against his mattress.

It’s been too long. He sighs into his arms and shifts his legs to be in a more comfortable position. Gathering the duvet, he tucks the blanket between his legs and lets out a soft groan. The last time he had this time to himself, it was in the communal showers, late at night, when nobody else was around. Hopefully. It’s hard to separate himself from Dedue when he takes the position of the royal retainer so seriously, so that had been some time ago. And with schoolwork, training, reading, and still maintaining a healthy social life with his house... no, Dimitri does not get much time alone. 

He cants down again, trying to find purchase in the soft duvet. It’s feather-light, not nearly enough, but it’s Dimitri’s preferred way to start— gentle, a slow buildup, thinking of bodies but not faces, nameless and featureless, men and women alike. Usually men. He imagines footsteps sound from the end of the hall. Slow. Even. Deliberate. Part of Dimitri knows it’s wise to glance up, just to be sure his door is locked, but there’s an unexpected thrill to be felt, knowing he could get caught in such a vulnerable position. Humiliating, is how it would feel, and his blood runs cold when the footsteps pause close to his door, but it feels _good_ and it makes him twitch and his toes curl in excitement. He never goes further from there, letting the sound of the footsteps either disappear or wait as if they know Dimitri gets off on it. 

Dimitri wonders what Claude thinks about. In the rare moments when he’s alone. When his hair is out of place, when his eyes are heavy-lidded and irises wide, when his cheeks are painted deep rose. Who does he think about? Goddess, how that colour would look on him. 

“Morning, Highness,” Claude says the next morning, coquettish and coy, teasing. A hand raises in greeting. He knows the formalities aren’t needed, and that they somewhat bother Dimitri, especially coming from fellow students. 

“Good morning, Claude,” says Dimitri, doing everything in his power to not watch the sway of Claude’s braid. They simply pass each other, going opposite directions. Dimitri means to meet with Dedue, Claude likely headed towards the dining hall. Claude brushes past Dimitri, brushes against blue fabric of his shoulder’s cape, the scent of cloves and spices in his wake. It makes Dimitri pauses in his steps; he swears it is the most divine thing. It makes Dimitri want to pivot, watch Claude saunter away, catching Hilda and Marianne on his hip. It makes Dimitri wonder: if Claude smells so good, what does he taste like? Not that he would be able to taste. So he lets out the breath he had been holding for a few moments and continues to the greenhouse, where he’s likely to find Dedue, determined not to think about it again. 

But he could feel Claude’s warm skin on his tongue, press a fresh bruise into his neck. Intrusive thoughts, Dimitri tries his best to not entertain them. He’d have to wear a scarf to cover up the bruise, purple and red and _telling_. 

Byleth invites the two of them to dinner that evening. He has no choice but to oblige-- not that he wouldn’t want to. It’s cute, the way Claude speaks with them, like old friends. He speaks animatedly, with his hands moving about. Dimitri cuts into the meat on his plate, tender, mostly listening. He had chosen to wear parts of his school uniform to dinner, turtleneck tight around his neck. It’s a bit warm, hot even, and Claude nearly pressed against him doesn’t help. When Claude laughs at something Byleth says, his fingers land on the side of Dimitri’s thigh. A bead of sweat runs down the back of his neck. 

“You alright, highness?” Claude asks, fork held in midair, one eyebrow raised and a playful grin on his lips. Dimitri wouldn't be surprised if he were to wink like he's known to do, a signature move at this point.

“Please, no need for such formalities, Claude,” says Dimitri, dodging the question, then busies himself with taking a prolonged drink. It must be sweet, by the smell of it, and it sparkles on his tongue. Some sort of cider, perhaps. He hadn’t asked. Claude’s fingers slip down, away from his thigh and back to the table, and it feels too intentional. Byleth watches, expressionless as ever. 

“Yes,” says Byleth, seeming to choose their words carefully, “All students are equal at the monastery.” 

“Sorry,” Claude grins, “do you like _Dimi_, better?” 

It’s like Dimitri’s brain shuts down. He can’t think properly, has to tell himself to breathe rather than doing it automatically, and his whole body turns to ice in a second. The ice melts, and he’s hot all over. Perhaps it would be wise, he tries to persuade himself, mulling over Professor Byleth’s words, it would be wise to treat his fellow students as his equal. As if he does not have an unfair advantage he was born into. 

“It’s,” Dimitri manages, “it’s better. It’s fine.” 

“Cute,” Byleth comments. There’s no use in trying to hide his blush, he can only hope it goes away as quickly as it came. If Claude sees the colour in his cheeks (which he does-- who wouldn’t?), he doesn’t say anything about it. Thankfully. Dimitri is the first to return to his quarters, first thanking Professor Byleth for the invitation and, albeit shakily, thanking Claude for sharing a meal with him. 

Dedue accompanies him to the bathhouse, having been entrusted with one of the few keys to the sauna inside. Dimitri doesn’t know who else has one, who would be trusted with one. Edelgard, of course, but he thinks she would have little interest in the self-indulgent aspect of it. Ferdinand, a better candidate. Mercedes, as the oldest, would also be likely to have a key. She would enjoy it, too, he thinks. 

They undress in comfortable silence, Dimitri taking care to hang his clothes up properly, tie the towel around his waist with precision. Dedue is slower, Dimitri knows he still has his reservations about showing his body, so he waits, patiently. It doesn’t take long, Dedue’s pledged himself to Dimitri and that means he must be careful to not make him wait. It’s not as if Dimitri minds. He gives Dedue a small smile, receives a nod in return, and holds the door open for him. They pass the public bath area first, condensation on the window blurring the view, Dimitri taking notes of who happens to be in it. He thinks he sees Sylvain, Felix’s navy hair let down and curling at his neck, around his chin. Claude’s there too, chatting, Dimitri rips his eyes away before he can observe anything more. His instincts tell him to run back, cover himself up, yet they also encourage him to expose himself, flesh on display, but he forces those impulses down and moves out of the way so Dedue can unlock the sauna. 

In the small room, it’s quite difficult to breathe, and his hair sticks to his forehead, sweat-slick. His face turns red easily, not so much a blush and more akin to an overheated burn. The colour splotches appear on his chest, his stomach, the small of his back. He’s careful to move, sweat coming from every pore, it runs down his body like he’s just gotten out of the bath. Dedue eyes him.

“Highness, if I may,” Dedue says quietly, waiting for Dimitri’s permission, which Dimitri grants in the form of a nod and questioning expression, “are you troubled, as of late?”

“Troubled,” Dimitri echoes.

“You haven’t been yourself.” 

There’s no lie there. Dimitri’s been distant, distracted. A crisis, of sorts. Troubled, he supposes so. It’s the sort of trouble he’s suspecting he likes, though. The bathhouse is notorious for being the rendezvous site of students desperate for solitude, a place to be alone together. 

“House relations,” Dimitri says, vague, naively hoping that the answer will satisfy Dedue. 

“Between?” 

“Myself,” he sinks into the wall, “and Von Riegan.” 

“I see.” 

“Unrequited,” Dimitri clarifies, “A one-sided relationship.” 

At least he’s aware, he thinks. Claude is flirtatious, yes, but he's not interested and Dimitri knows this. He knows it's a game to Claude, a game he doesn't care to win or lose. A few more seconds of silence pass. But Dedue’s not done.

“May I offer some advice, highness?” 

“Please.”

“Speak to him,” Dedue says plainly, “It’s not wise to let your training suffer because of a romantic interest.”

Such is the voice of reason. It’s unfair, how Dedue can be so blunt and observant and _correct_. Dimitri knows not to argue it, he cannot hide anything from Dedue no matter how hard he tries. It’s been that way since they met. Like Dedue knows him from the inside out. The only other option is to let it go, but Dimitri does not believe himself capable of doing so. Once he gets something on his mind, it’s difficult to focus on anything else. Being as disciplined as he is, has its downsides. 

Some time passes. Dedue gets up before Dimitri, making sure to leave the key with him so he can lock the sauna when he’s done. Wouldn’t it be nice, Dimitri thinks, if he could sweat out all of his attraction to Claude. 

Upon leaving the sauna, Dimitri makes a stop at the baths. Of course, Sylvain and Felix have left, presumably returned to their respective rooms, but Claude remains, toweling off his hair.

The sweat idea-- didn’t work. Dimitri lowers himself into the water, on the opposite side of the bath, back still facing Claude as he dries himself off with his towel. Shamelessly. How Dimitri longs to be one of the drops of water on Claude’s shoulder. There’s no way around it. Closing his eyes, he lets out a soft gasp-- the water is slightly too cool. Neither of them particularly good with magic, so it hasn’t been heated in some time. It’s like he can feel Claude’s eyes on him, can smell the smirk playing at his lips.

Suffice to say Claude _knows_. With his lingering hands and flirtatious looks and downright _bedroom_ eyes, perpetually at half-mast when he looks at Dimitri, there’s not a doubt in his mind that Claude is aware of his… of his crush. Silly to think that a prince, a man of Dimitri’s status and age, would have such a puppy-like crush on his _classmate_ of all people. Highly inappropriate. Does it even matter, at the academy? 

Claude is the first to break the silence. First with a splash, stepping in a puddle of water that one of the others must have left in their wake, then-- 

“_Dimi_,” Claude murmurs, sounding entirely too close for Dimitri’s liking. The nickname makes Dimitri's heart rate spike, his breath catching in his throat. It’s best for him to keep his distance. Is it? What’s best for him, anymore? He doesn’t reply. Claude doesn’t wait for it anyway, padding towards the door to the dressing room. He’s gone before Dimitri has a chance to register his words. 

“You look good with nothing on.”


End file.
